by Mary Marks
“That was fast.”
My half sister giggled. “She said she Googled me and found out I was telling the truth about who I was. I knew she’d cave when she saw the dollar signs. They always do.”
“And here I thought she was mesmerized by your charm. You know, when you flipped her the bird?”
“She gave my phone number to Meredith Gomez’s son, Carlos, and he’s going to call me this afternoon at two.”
“I’ll come to your place.”
After another unsuccessful attempt to reach Lucy, Jazz left. I spent the rest of the morning doing laundry from my trip and giving the house a general cleaning. At twelve-thirty, I changed my clothes, jumped in the car, and headed south on the 405 toward the Palisades. As I neared the Sunset Boulevard off-ramp, a new idea hatched in my head. I could barely wait to run it by Giselle.
When I arrived, the housekeeper showed me to the living room, where my sister sat gazing through the mullioned windows to the golfing greens beyond her large yard. She cradled a cell phone in both hands and turned to greet me with a serious look on her face. “I hope we can talk the son into letting us interview Detective Gomez.”
I plopped down next to her on the sofa. “You know, G, it just occurred to me on the drive over. Quinn had an exclusive contract with that gallery in Beverly Hills. Yet the file never mentions an interview with the owner, Eliza Shiffer. Don’t you find that suspicious?”
She nodded rapidly. “You’re right, Sissy. You know, the Shiffer still exists. It’s been taken over by Eliza Shiffer’s son. He contacts me every once in a while to ask if I’m ready to sell Daddy’s paintings. He claims to know serious collectors who’d pay a fortune for any one of them. Apparently, they’re worth a lot more because of Daddy’s mysterious disappearance.”
“Is Eliza Shiffer still alive?”
“I don’t know. But we should definitely find out.”
At precisely two, Giselle’s cell phone rang. She took a deep breath and answered, “Giselle Cole.” She listened for a moment and then said, “Thank you for calling, Mr. Gomez. My sister is with me, so I’m putting you on speaker.” She pressed a button and held the phone between us.
I leaned toward the phone. “Hello. My name is Martha Rose, and we appreciate your taking the time to call.”
“Actually, I only have a few minutes before I have to leave for the studio. What is it that you want, Mrs. Cole?”
Studio? His voice sounded familiar. Where had I heard it before?
Giselle explained who we were and why we wanted to interview his mother. “Miss Leathy says that sometimes memory care patients are clearer in the mornings.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to question my mother. She won’t remember a thing. She doesn’t even recognize me anymore. I’m sorry, but I won’t risk your upsetting her.”
Suddenly I realized why his voice was familiar. “Are you the Carlos Gomez? The weatherman on ABC Eyewitness News?” I pictured the handsome Latino, with dark hair, standing in front of a weather map, always dressed in dark suits and brightly colored neckties—blue for stormy weather, green for mild weather, and yellow to red for the hotter days.
He answered with a terse “Yes.”
I tried to think of a way to establish some rapport in the hopes he might relent. “Well, I just love your reports. I listen to you every night. I live in Encino and appreciate that you always feature our local weather. You know,” I chuckled, “maybe you should hire me. I have fibromyalgia, which is more accurate than your Mega Doppler thingy. I can always tell days in advance when it’s going to rain.”
When he didn’t respond, I tried a more direct approach. “Look, I understand your wanting to protect your mother. I’d feel the same way. But what if you were present when we talked to her? You could stop the interview if you felt she was becoming upset.”
“The answer is no. You’ll have to get your information elsewhere. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work.” The phone went silent.
Giselle said, “Now what?”
“You know, G, I promised to update my friend Gabe Farkas on our investigation. I think it’s time to make that phone call. Gabe can help us search for Quinn Junior’s birth records, since Yossi isn’t available. Plus, as a police detective, he might be able to interview Meredith Gomez.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?”
I retrieved my cell phone from my purse and dialed Farkas’s number. “Hi, Gabe. Remember when you said to call if my father’s disappearance turned into a homicide investigation?”
CHAPTER 17
An hour later, Giselle and I sat across the desk from Detective Gabriel Farkas. “You have an actual office now? With doors?” I asked.
The forty-year-old shifted his considerable bulk in the chair. “Just happened. You’re looking at the youngest guy to make chief of detectives in West LA. History.”
“Congratulations!” I smiled at the portly man. “Your dad must be proud. He’s a nice person, by the way, and extremely helpful.”
Farkas looked at my sister. “He remembered you from when you were a child, Mrs. Cole.” Then he turned to me. “And he was very taken with you. Am I in danger of one day having to call you Mom?”
I threw back my head and laughed. “You’re safe for now.”
“So, tell me what you got.” He leaned back and clasped his pudgy fingers behind his neck.
I took a deep breath and related everything we’d found out. “The Beverly Hills chief of police, Rex Nelson, stopped the investigation the minute your father reported Quinn was likely dead. Your dad also told us Quinn’s missing-persons file had been sanitized, and we found plenty of evidence to support that. This screams conspiracy, Gabe, and your dad said as much.”
“That’s why my old man insisted on speaking to you in person. I know him. He didn’t want to take the chance that anyone would be listening in on your phone conversations.”
Giselle pulled out her cell phone and stared at the blank screen. “Oh my God, are you suggesting our phones have been hacked?”
“It’s easier than you think.” Farkas frowned. “I admire what the two of you have done up to this point. You’ve exposed an unsolved murder and possible cover-up. But if the BHPD chief was involved, who knows how much higher this thing went. What you’re alleging is very serious.”
He paused, tapping his fingers on the desk. “It’s unlikely after thirty-two years, but suppose the players in this drama are still alive. If they heard you were poking around, they might feel threatened. And depending on who was involved in the conspiracy, you could be in danger. Now’s the time to back off and let the pros take over.”
“Will you help us, Gabe?”
“Jeez.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Technically, your father’s case is out of our jurisdiction. It belongs to Beverly Hills.”
“You can’t turn it over to them yet.” Giselle strained forward. “We don’t know why they hid Daddy’s murder or who was involved. You said it yourself. If the Beverly Hills bad guys are still alive, they’ll just squash the investigation again.”
“I agree,” I said. “We can’t hand over the case until we have more information. Listen. Jayda Constable said Quinn was close to his son. Our half brother was nine at the time of Quinn’s disappearance. We’d like to find him. My fiancé was going to help me look, but he got called away on assignment, and I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
Farkas took a hit from his inhaler and looked at the ceiling. “Why me, God?” He slid a pen and a yellow tablet across the desk toward me. “Write his name.”
I screwed my face into an apology. “I wish I could. The only thing we know about him, is that he was born in LA in 1971.”
“Are you kidding me? I’ll need more than that. There are one hundred fifty thousand babies born in the county each year.”
“Sorry.”
“Can you at least narrow it down to the month?”
“Well, the night our brother was being born in LA, Qu
inn was in New York,” I said.
“Screwing Jayda Constable,” Giselle added. “She said it was their first time. Maybe she remembers.”
“He sounds like father of the year,” Farkas scoffed. “Write down this Jayda’s phone number.”
Giselle scrolled through her cell phone contacts and showed me the number stored there. I copied it on the tablet, double-checking to make sure there were no mistakes. “Our only other possible lead is Detective Meredith Gomez. Can you question her?”
“I can try. But don’t get your hopes up.”
“Don’t forget to ask her about the cover-up by Chief Nelson.” Giselle waved an imperious hand.
Farkas ignored the commanding gesture. “I didn’t make chief of d’s by accusing neighboring city officials of crimes I have no way of proving.” He stood with a grunt and ushered us to the door. “For now, let’s just concentrate on finding your brother.”
“Thanks, Gabe.”
He sighed. “I’m going to regret this. I just know it.”
Back in the car, my stomach growled.
Giselle said, “You hungry? Really? It’s only five.”
“I could eat.” What I really meant was, I’m starving, but I don’t want you, oh slender one, to judge me.
We ended up at El Indio on 26th Street and San Vincente in Santa Monica. The bar was crowded with happy hour, but we walked straight past the noise into a half-empty dining room. We slid into the red vinyl seats of a small booth with a wooden table made glossy by a thick layer of hard resin. Corona and Tecate labels peeked up through the transparent coating.
Almost immediately, a blond waitress wearing a yellow halter top and long floral skirt placed a basket of warm corn chips and a bowl of chunky guacamole in the middle of our table.
Giselle said, “This place is so popular, you usually have to wait for hours to be seated. But since it’s only five, way before the time most normal people have dinner, I knew we wouldn’t have a problem.”
I ignored the snarkasm and looked at the menu. “What’s good to eat here?”
“Almost everything. Because it’s totally vegetarian, you don’t have to worry about pork or shellfish or anything made with lard.” When she saw my surprise, she snapped a corn chip in half, raked it through the guacamole, and shoved it into her mouth. “Welcome to West LA, Sissy.”
During a satisfying meal of bean and cheese burritos, we made plans to visit the Shiffer Gallery the following afternoon. I drove Giselle back to the Palisades, then I made my way back to the 405 Freeway north toward Encino. I took the Balboa Boulevard off-ramp, but instead of turning right to go to my house, I made a left and aimed my car toward Lucy’s place. I was no longer willing to let my best friend face her problems alone.
It was seven-thirty by the time I arrived at Lucy’s front door. I steeled myself for hearing the worst possible news and pushed the doorbell. Almost a minute later the dead bolt made a metallic click and Lucy opened the door with very wide eyes and a flushed face. She clutched a white terry-cloth bathrobe around her body, one hand at the neck and one at the waist. Her feet were bare.
“I’m sorry, Lucy. Did I get you out of the shower?”
“Not exactly.” She sounded slightly guarded.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion, but I couldn’t wait any longer for you to call me back. I decided to drop by on my way home. How’s Ray?”
A familiar male voice approached from down the hallway. “Just fine until you showed up.” Ray emerged, smoothing his disheveled hair, clad only in a short navy blue bathrobe. He stood next to Lucy, who was two inches taller in her bare feet.
“Oh my God.” I stammered, mortified when I realized I had just interrupted an intimate moment. “Sorry. Sorry. I’ll come back another time.” I turned on my heel to go when Ray’s laughter boomed.
“Come on in and have a glass of champagne. Lucy and I can pick up where we left off later.”
Lucy wrapped her robe tightly around her waist, tied the belt, and moved aside. I stepped indoors. We headed for the kitchen table as Ray went back to their bedroom.
Lucy said, “We’ve been celebrating.”
“I take it then, the news is good?”
Lucy nodded. “We’re in the clear. His polyps were benign, but they’re the kind that could turn into cancer if allowed to grow. So, because of his family history, he needs to have a colonoscopy every two years.”
Ray returned wearing striped blue pajamas under his robe and holding a bottle in his hand. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, poured my drink, and raised his glass. “Cin cin!”
I took a sip and noticed that a little bit of Giselle had rubbed off on me. The champagne wasn’t as perfect as the Cristal Andrew Goldman sent to our table at Un Deux Trois, nor as smooth as the Dom Pérignon my sister preferred. Nevertheless, their celebration bubbles tasted like relief and gratitude mixed with joy.
Sitting next to Lucy, Ray put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She let her body melt into his and turned her head to gaze into his eyes. Together since childhood and now in their late sixties, they smiled that secret smile of soul mates, communicating an encyclopedia of love.
I thanked them for the drink. “I can let myself out.”
They barely noticed me leave.
I fell into bed that night missing Crusher and wondering when I’d see him again.
* * *
Thursday afternoon I took Coldwater Canyon over the hill. Giselle had warned me to wear something good, so I dressed in my white linen suit. She waited for me in the driveway of her Beverly Hills estate wearing an expensive-looking dark suit, white silk blouse, and lots of diamonds.
I pulled up next to her and rolled down the window. “Hop in, G. I can drive us to the gallery.”
“No way. If we want to make an impression, we can’t show up in something only the help would drive.”
“Could you be more rude?”
“I’m only being honest. We’ll take my car.” She pointed to a midnight blue Jaguar parked near the six-car garage.
“What’s wrong with your Escalade?”
“Too soccer mom. And too red. If you want to command respect, you either have to be chauffeured or drive something dark, sleek, and expensive.”
I heaved a sigh and parked next to her car.
As soon as I got out of the Civic, she said, “You’re wearing that thing again? We’ve got to get you some new clothes!”
“I was wrong. You can be more rude.”
I opened the passenger door of the Jag and buckled myself in. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Giselle was right. The interior smelled like new leather, expensive perfume, and power. She turned the key and the engine sounded like my cat Bumper when I scratched him under the chin.
We purred our way down Wilshire Boulevard and passed stores I could never afford to shop in: Barneys, Saks, and Neiman Marcus. I had to admit, riding in style made me feel special, even entitled. These last few days with Giselle had given me a glimpse into her world of luxury and privilege. I could easily imagine how a rich person might want to cover up sordid family secrets in order to preserve their social position.
I Googled the Shiffer Gallery on my smartphone and scrolled through old publicity pictures. “Crap. Did you ever meet Eliza Shiffer?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“According to this old photo, she was quite glamorous. Knowing Quinn’s weakness for beautiful women, I think we’d better prepare ourselves.”
“Oh my God. Not another one.”
The Gallery occupied a space on the first floor of a four-story glass office building on the corner of Wilshire and Doheny. We found street parking in front and headed toward the door.
“Let’s hope Eliza Shiffer will talk, G. She held an exclusive contract to sell Quinn’s paintings. Surely she’d be in a position to know about his finances. Depending on how close they really were, maybe she can tell us some of his other secrets.”
CHAPTER 18
Ab
stract paintings dominated the white walls of the Shiffer Gallery. One canvas five feet square featured a textured swirl of bright colors emanating from a dark center. On closer examination, it appeared the paint had been slathered on with a palette knife by an artist high on speed or low on lithium. The title on the label read Black Hole and the asking price was $125,000.
“Isn’t it marvelous? It’s a brand-new Pedro Ayala. We have him under exclusive contract. This won’t last long, so if you’re interested, you should grab it soon.”
We turned to look at the owner of the voice. A man in his early forties stood hands on hips, dark purple hair hanging over one eye in studied nonchalance. He wore a black turtleneck T-shirt with long sleeves and skinny black jeans tucked into soft leather half-boots.
Giselle took one step toward him and offered her hand. “We’re looking for Eliza Shiffer. I’m Giselle Cole and this is my sister, Martha Rose.”
The man raised his visible eyebrow and accepted her hand, gushing. “You’re Mrs. Cole? Oh my God. At last we finally meet. We’ve spoken on the phone many times.” He nodded once in my direction. “I actually knew your father. I’m Wolf Shiffer, Eliza’s son.”
Giselle reclaimed her hand. “Is she here?”
“Alas! My mother passed away five years ago and left the gallery to me. You must be here about Quinn’s paintings. I’d be honored to handle the sale. I have collectors who would pay top dollar to own one.”
Giselle held up her hand and gave a quick shake of her head. “Actually, we’re here to gather information about our father’s disappearance.”
Shiffer tilted his head. “What could I possibly tell you? Mother never talked about him, really. And I was only a kid when he went missing.”
The same alarm bell that went off in my head must have also clanged in Giselle’s, because we looked at each other at the same time. I knew she was wondering the same thing I was.
I placed my hand gently on Shiffer’s arm and spoke in a hushed tone. “I wonder if we might enlist your help, Wolf.” I leaned closer and whispered, “We believe Quinn was murdered. You may be able to help us solve the mystery.”
